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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29548884">Far From Any Road</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfykeith/pseuds/wolfykeith'>wolfykeith</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Voltron: Legendary Defender</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Forbidden Love, Keith isn't human, M/M, Slow Burn, Southern Gothic, a spooky story kinda, dark things, lance owns a strawberry farm, sad things</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 20:13:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,043</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29548884</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfykeith/pseuds/wolfykeith</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Lance is twelve years old when he finds the old book, dusty and hidden in the attic of his grandma’s house. He shouldn't be up here and he shouldn't be trying to read a dead language, especially not out loud. But he's just a kid, lonely and curious, and this can lead anyone into strange situations. And little does he know, how strange things can really get.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Keith &amp; Lance (Voltron), Keith/Lance (Voltron)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>66</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Far From Any Road</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p><em>mors tua, vita mea</em><br/>
<em>your death, my life. </em></p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lance is twelve years old when he finds the old book, dusty and hidden in the attic of his grandma’s house. It’s a stormy day, sky dark-ridden with even darker clouds, rolling with thunder. Summertime in the south is no joke and he’d spent his time playing in the rain, glad to have a break from the humidity. Of course, once it clears, that will return like a soppin’ blanket. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>He sneezes from the dust and exposed insulation, no doubt a danger to his young lungs. But he’d grown bored of exploring parts of the large house that were easily accessible. The guest rooms, all three of them, only held so much mystery and the old den housed numerous toys, all of which he’s almost grown out of. He’d even ventured into the shack behind the house, next to the fields that usually produce strawberries in the spring. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Now, he supposes it’s time to be here, in this drafty space. His heart is thrum in his chest, thumping wildly with his own imagination: ghosts, ghouls, spirits are hiding in the mess. There are several old dresses hanging from headless mannequins and he spots one in a flash of lightning, throwing a palm over his mouth to keep himself from screaming. The last thing he needs is for his grandma to stomp up the steps and pull at his ear, berating him for climbing the old ladder. In a hurry, he finds the light switch and the bulb above flicks on with a buzz, covered in webs. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Lance blinks against the light and finally takes a very deep breath, glad that the dress is indeed not a ghost out to get him. Thunder shakes the attic and he steps carefully on the squeaky floorboards, bare feet cold from a draft. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>He doesn’t really know where to start. Boxes are stacked high, most holding decorations for the various seasons. There are tools left to rust, no doubt his grandpa’s before he passed, and bins full of music records. Lance bites at his lip and tiptoes to the corner of the attic, nearest the window and the howling wind. Here, there is a grand chest, which immediately caught his eye. Curious as a cat, he touches the wood and the golden rim, running a finger against the collected dust. When he lifts it, the gold catches the light and he smiles, feeling like a pirate who’s suddenly found treasure. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Getting to his knees, he fiddles with the lock, looking for a key. Foolish, of course. Even if the key was here, it’s would be lost and buried. He huffs and sits back on his ankles, pondering. Though he doesn’t recognize it himself, he’s very intelligent for his age. He excels in school, when his mind can settle long enough to focus. Puzzles are fun to him and more than once he can be found in the early morning, eat strawberry jam on toast with his grandma, both solving the riddles and games in the paper. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>So, Lance leans over and lifts the lock to eye level. It’s a combination and for anyone else, they would give up the moment they see it. Surely there is no way he could guess the correct numbers. Still, he roams his brain and thinks of important dates, of deaths in his family, of birthdays and anniversaries. He picks up on these things when listening to conversations, almost always sitting close by, acting as if he were paying no mind. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>He tries his grandpa’s birthday with no luck, followed next by his aunt and uncles. With no luck, he runs his thumb over the lock and looks at the strange engravings, the flowing marks that look like no language he’s ever seen. Not that he’s seen that many. Yet, the markings almost seem to slither around like a snake in the grass. He blinks fast and hard, wondering if the insulation was finally getting to his head. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Soon, there is a sentence. An unknown string of words, definitely not Spanish or English, the likes of which he’s fluent. He reads it over and over, trying to sound it out like his grandma taught him. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Mors tua, vita mea.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He whispers. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>There is silence. The rain hits the window but he no longer hears it, the wind once a howl, now ghostly in the distance. Lance looks up at the tree outside, the branches very still, leaves left suspended. The air is frigid and when Lance breathes, suddenly very afraid, he can see the steam of his breath. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>He stands quickly, backing away from the chest with a feeling of deep regret and dread. What has he done? Hasn’t he seen the scary movies? Hasn’t he heard stories of people doing things they shouldn’t do, ending up in a situation they could have avoided?</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Before he can run away, back down the old ladder and into the warmth of his grandma’s house, the sounds return. Rain pelts the house, a tree limb outside scratches the windowsill and Lance sags beneath the relief of realizing the chill has dissipated. He takes a shuddering breath and wipes a hand down the length of his face, blinking against the shock.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“What’s wrong with me?” He huffs, sniffing back the urge to cry. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>He begins to turn away, glad to escape the attic. But before he can, he notices that the lock is suddenly </span>
  <em>
    <span>open</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It dangles from the chest and as if he were pulled by an invisible hand, Lance throws away the previous fear and paralyzation. He stalks forward and rips the chest open, eager to see what caused his strange reaction. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“A book?” He asks aloud, staring at the black booklet wrapped in a leather cloth. “That’s it?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>He picks it up, feeling the weight in his palm. The pages are thin and crinkly but he doesn’t hesitate in turning them, eyeing the title. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <em>
    <span>Tenebris Magicae. </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span><br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span><br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <span>“Okay.” He shrugs, “No idea what </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> means.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Lance Mcclain!” A sharp voice shouts, “Get your skinny butt over here!”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Jumping, Lance turns and shoves the book into the back of his pants, pushing his shirt down to cover it. The chest has already closed without him noticing and when he glances back, the lock is as it was before. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>His grandma stands with a hand on her hip, thick curly hair pulled high in a pony tail. Her wrinkly skin is brown and flushed, probably from having to climb the steep ladder. Shame washes over him and he walks forward, head hanging low. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“That’s right.” She says in spanish, “You should feel guilty, making me look so hard to find you.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Sorry.” He mumbles, passing her pointing finger to start his way back down stairs. “I just wanted to look.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Mhmm.” She follows close behind, “This will stay locked from now on. Don’t try it again.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>He nods and finally reaches the bottom, waiting for her. She brings with her a familiar scent, one that will always remind him of home. Floral, like roses, with a vanilla lotion she puts on the driest parts of her skin. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“I am sorry, Grandma.” He tries his best to show how sorry he really is and she looks at him for a long moment, pursing her lips. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“You look like a little deer.” She sighs and ushers him toward the kitchen, “C’mon. Dinner’s ready.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>That night, as the rain continues to pour, Lance sits on his floor with a flashlight. He stares at the book, trepidation sitting heavy on his mind. It pushes and pulls, his thoughts bouncing between that same old curiosity and the smarts to know that he shouldn’t have taken the book at all. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>At dinner, his grandma had studied him, dark eyes watching him eat his chicken fried steak with a bit too much seriousness. He’d tried to lighten the mood but she didn’t budge, instead sipping her tea slowly. Eventually, she cleared her throat and mentioned that they would be going to church in the morning, a journey he’s always less than happy to partake in. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Mom didn’t make me go.” He’d said. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>She frowned harder, if that was possible, and shook her head. “Well, she’s not here anymore, is she?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>His grandmother was kind and caring but she was also very blunt. She had a strict belief that children should always deal with reality the same as adults, at least in respects to things like death. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Now, Lance grimaces and pulls the book into his lap, desperate to turn his thoughts away from those dark places. He opens the cover and looks at the title again, eyes running over the words with no real understanding. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>He flips the pages randomly, eyeing strange drawings of dark figures, of different flowers and vials of things labeled in a scribble. Passages lead to new pages that end abruptly, a single symbol drawn beneath. His flashlight flickers but he shakes it until it’s bright again, annoyed. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Finally, he stops on a peculiar page. Only one word sits at the top, smudged a bit but this time he can actually read it. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Friend?” He wonders aloud. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>He scans the short paragraph but finds no more readable words. Friends are good, he thinks. And he doesn’t have any of his own. He speaks the words in the paragraph slowly, timidly, whispering them against the dark. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Lightning flashes but this time he isn’t so afraid. He doesn’t shudder from any cold, nor does he lose his sense of hearing. Instead, he suddenly feels very calm. He finishes the reading and waits, as if something were going to happen. He expects to meet this friend, to see them waiting for him to notice them, but when he shuts the book and stands he is still very much alone. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>He wilts. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>He waits. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>He lays down and eventually, unwillingly, he falls asleep. </span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p><br/>
<span>Lance wakes slowly, stretching his toes against the bright morning sun. The rain has passed and summer has returned, the blue sky visible between his curtains. He feels exceptionally warm, as if curled within a comfortable blanket. He yawns and reaches for the book he’d left on the pillow beside him, fingers searching, only to land in something </span>
  <em>
    <span>soft. </span>
  </em>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Startled, he freezes and moves his fingers a bit more, lifting them as something similar to strands of hair falls against his palm. His throat closes up as he turns his head slowly, eyes squeezed shut, more than afraid to find out what it is he’s touching. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>When he finally finds the courage to look, he is met with wide eyes. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Shooting up, he tries his best not to scream. The boy beside him looks no older than Lance himself, though he hasn’t blinked nor has he really moved other than to follow Lance’s movements. Lance throws the sheets from his body and moves to stand in the middle of his room, chest heaving. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>The boy smiles, sharp teeth peaking between his lips. When he sits up, four horns protrude from his head; two at the temples, two above the brows. His hair is a bit long, cheekbones sharp, skin very pale. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Who-” Lance’s voice cracks and he trembles, entire body shaking. “Who are you?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>The boy stands up slowly on the bed, visibly a child, though he is very much not human. He shrugs and waits, eyeing Lance. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“How’d you get in my room?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>The boy shrugs again and finally gets down from the bed, bare feet finding the floor gently. He wears a dark shirt and a pair of trousers, looking as if he’d stepped into this world from some distant past. He walks right up to Lance, close enough that Lance is tempted to step away, but doesn’t do much else. This close, Lance sees that his irises are a deep black, like the sky at midnight. There is a point of light in them, like a star. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Suddenly, he reaches up and touches a hand to Lance’s cheek. His skin is warm and he reaches for Lance’s hand, bringing it to his own cheek. He holds it there as if he were afraid Lance would pull away. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Finally, with a very soft voice, he says only one word. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <em>
    <span><br/>
</span>
    <span>“Friend.”</span>
  </em>
  <span></span><br/>
<em>
    <span></span><br/>
</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hope you like this! let me know if i should continue</p></blockquote></div></div>
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